


How'd He Get in Here Anyway

by goldblood



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-07 07:34:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3166694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldblood/pseuds/goldblood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How come 007 is the only agent who isn't affected by the increased security measures?<br/>And how come he always ends up in Q's apartment, when it's obvious he would much rather be in a strip club or a bar?</p>
            </blockquote>





	How'd He Get in Here Anyway

**Author's Note:**

> Rapidly-written fic about my new favourite pairing. Hope you enjoy (despite the probable mistakes!)

Hunched over his laptop with a creased forehead and an ajar mouth, the rapid chatter of Q's fingers racing over the keyboard paused for a moment as he let out a quiet sigh of frustration.   
Slouched in the armchair next to him was the prone form of his bodyguard, unconscious for hours, snoring so loudly the neighbors had knocked twice and demanded that his "boyfriend keep the noise down". He'd resigned himself to this explanation for the hulking man's constant - and unwelcome - presence in Q's apartment; since the death of the previous head of MI6, the new security measures could be felt by restricting the lives of everyone in the employ of the British secret service.

Apart from, it seemed, 007, who could often be found lurking in shadowy corners of the Underground or haunting the local nightclub, a pair of barely-dressed women curled around him, a martini in one hand and the waist of one girl in the other.   
Though apparently, whenever he found it necessary, the legendary agent could also be found perched on a table-top in Q's apartment. 

"You might as well come out now, Bond. I know you're there." Briefly looking up from the screen of his laptop to glare towards the darkness of his kitchen, Q allowed himself an eye-roll as the sound of someone closing a cabinet door was heard.  
"I suppose I should've known better than to expect good alcohol in the house of a boy barely out of university." The double-0 agent eyed his glass of white wine with a look of disappointment as he sauntered into the room, dressed in his usual attire of a suit and tie. "What backstreet alley is this from?"   
"It's from Asda," Q replied vaguely, absorbed in his work. "Something on clearance."   
"Hmm, that explains it." Bond placed his glass rather gingerly on the coffee table, continuing to stare at the amber-tinted concoction with mild trepidation. After a moment of thought - probably about the bar down the road and what types of vodka it would have - Bond cast his calculating blue eyes around the room, meticulously neat as always, his gaze lingering on the food containers, the official documents, the empty mugs with coffee dregs.   
"Not a very good bodyguard, is he?" He remarked of the snoring man in the armchair after a few moments, his lip curling. "They should've really assigned someone a little better as your bodyguard. Do you even know how to fire a gun? Or not trip over your own feet?"   
Successfully distracted, Q snapped his laptop shut with a bleary-eyed glare in Bond's direction.   
"Don't you have somewhere else to be at -" Q glanced at the digital clock propped against his television " -2:30 in the morning?" 

Bond's lips curled again, this time into a coy smile. Q knew perfectly well why; by successfully diverting Q's attention away from work, Bond had already won the first part of this game they played, the verbal game of sly retorts and veiled insults, of underlying implications and biting sarcasm.  
"Now where on Earth would I be at this time of the morning?"   
"I don't know. A nightclub, a hotel room, vomiting in a gutter?" Q replied smoothly, the tiniest hint of a smile pricking at his lips.   
"Doubtful. I hold my liquor well."   
Q smiled a little more at that. "I've seen your track record, Bond. I think the reason you hold your liquor so well is because your blood is probably pure alcohol, by this point."   
"Didn't anyone ever tell you snobby Eton-graduates to respect your elders?"  
"You're too old to be my elder, Bond. You're an older-elder."

Both men regarded each other, Q smirking, Bond with a covertly amused expression and raised eyebrows.   
"Trying to say I'm too old for you, spotty?" Bond asked, his voice mild but subtly suggestive. And, as it always did when they reached _this_ part of the game, Q's face heated and his heart rate hitched. And of course, once again, the double-0 agent was exploiting his Quartermaster's only weakness (apart from overly strenuous physical activity): James Bond and his blue eyes and his flirtatious little smile and his suggestive comments.   
"Back off, Bond. It's going to take me about six hours to crack this firewall and you annoying me is only going to increase that time."   
Bond's mouth twitched, satisfied that he'd touched a nerve.   
"Maybe I should just go to that bar down the road. I expect there'll be some unhappily married women there at this time looking for someone to warm their beds for tonight."   
"They'll be looking for more than a warm bed." Q muttered under his breath despite himself, flipping open his laptop and pretending to continue his work, hoping that Bond wouldn't realise he was simply unpicking the coding of a small-time website.   
"Jealous, Q?" Bond queried lightly, leaning over the coffee table and offering Q a lopsided smile.   
"In your wildest dreams, 007." Q replied airily, not glancing up from the flickering laptop screen. 

Bond straightened, flicking a tongue over his lower lip and eyeing the young Quartermaster with slight disappointment that his advances had been so thoroughly rejected.   
"Well, if you're sure," The agent replied coolly, and his flat stare wondered over to the door. "At least they'll serve me something better than Asda-brand wine down at the bar." He flashed a charming smile at the young Quartermaster, apparently not noticing the jutting of the lower lip and the betrayed look that flashed in his sleep-blurred green eyes. Bond disappeared into the shadows, like he always did, and the sound of the front door opening and shutting filled the silent room. 

The bodyguard jerked awake.   
"What was that? The door?" He demanded in a scratchy voice, lifting one hand in a sloppy gesture, his sweat-glazed face screwing up against the white glare of Q's laptop.   
"No." Q answered him sharply. "Nothing happened." _Nothing at all._  
"Oh..." The bodyguard's eyes rolled back into his head and he slumped backwards once again. Q eyed him dispassionately, then lifted his fingers from the keys of his laptop and ran them through the dark curls of hair so that they looked even more tangled than before.

Of course, this game was _just_ a game; nothing more than tense undercurrents and heavy glances, than quips and trying to make the other jealous. It could never be anything more than that, nothing serious.   
Well, perhaps for Bond. For Q, this had stopped being _just_ a game quite a long time ago, when Bond hadn't blamed him for Silva's escape, had quietly thanked him for the breadcrumb trail he'd left for Silva, had remarked on his next mission that he wanted more than a "hyped-up gun" and some proper gadgets this time. And no matter how flippant Q acted, no matter how uninterested he appeared, no matter how many times he chanted _just a game, just a game, just a game_ in his mind, something had changed. 

Q paused for a moment, then his fingers met the keys of his laptop again and CCTV imaging from the hallway outside his door appeared on his screen. 

Bond was gone. Blindly fumbling for the unfinished wine on the coffee table and taking a swig to moisten his mouth - Bond had been right, it was repulsive - Q found the CCTV imaging in the staircase, the elevator; the darkened, pixelated images were absent of the usual tall, smartly-dressed figure and Q frowned, slightly breathless. What had Bond done? Jumped off the balcony? Ducked into a different room and started flirting with one of Q's neighbors? The bitter taste, left over by the wine, increased in his mouth and he swallowed. 

"Come on, Q, you didn't think I'd give up that easily, did you?"   
Warm breath feathered over the side of Q's neck; he could smell alcohol and tobacco and mint and musk.   
"I - I didn't - don't -" Q struggled to find words that could explain his frantic search and he stuttered to a halt as Bond's arms draped over his shoulders and the agent smirked into the side of his neck.   
"Sure you're not jealous, Q?"   
Q opened his mouth to reply, but only a guttural noise was uttered as the agent's lips found the space behind his ear and his hands found one of the buttons of his shirt. His eyes first of all flickered cautiously to the sleeping bodyguard - who was clearly still out cold and wouldn't have woken again even if World War 3 broke out - and then to the digital clock. _2:41._   
"You have two hours of my undivided attention, 007." Q muttered, twisting around in his seat and meeting Bond's teasing blue stare. "Impress me."   
"Oh, that won't be a problem," Bond laughed under his breath, and briefly, Q thought he saw something more than a playful glint in his eyes - affection? Love? - before their lips met and he stopped caring about whether or not this was a game or something entirely different.


End file.
